


Independence Day

by Serenhawk



Series: The Cockles Digest [7]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Cuddling, Fluff, Its just more introspective schmoopy fluff okay?, Jensen POV, M/M, Misha's dubious clothing choices, Polyamory, Schmoop, more schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen has a holiday date with Misha. He wasn't expecting it to be with Misha's wife as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Independence Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrielleSPN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrielleSPN/gifts), [pietoperdition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pietoperdition/gifts), [ByArasDesign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByArasDesign/gifts).



> It's been a year (A YEAR!) since I checked in with these two, and what a year it has been.  
> They are all but shipping themselves now; on boats no less, and they can't go past a sunset....so I feel somewhat superfluous. You just can't make this stuff up.  
> West and Maison are in this story, but not participants.  
> I wanted to paint a picture of what poly relationships can actually look like. I rambled, as usual. 
> 
> For the beautiful Amy, Ara and Brea, as promised.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect is intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

As always, thanks for the inspiration Dmitri.

   

 

~ * ~

 

Jensen thumbed the strap of his bag over one shoulder and shut the car door, flicking his fingers in a dismissive wave as it pulled away from the kerb. He didn’t wait for it to retreat before turning through the gateway, eager to get inside into respite from the sun, and everything else the four walls of the house’s owner offered him.

“Shi—“ he hissed, retrieving himself from a stumble after catching his toe on the steps. He’d walked this path to Misha and Vicki’s front door a hundred times. _I must be fucking tired_ , he argued internally, although the amount of bourbon and beer still working its way out of his system from the party the night before didn’t help, despite it being mid-afternoon, and having put in a decent swim and a game of basketball already that day.

It had been a welcome blowout from the exhaustive week of prep - shortened by the holiday weekend – that had him wired and dizzy, his brain and body jetlagged from the rapid ejection out of vacation mode to land in the most intense couple of weeks of his year.

It was at about this stage every time he began to question why the fuck he put his hand up to direct, but he knew from experience once he was back in the trenches; walking the marks, triple thinking the angles and seeing the crew slip into their jobs like cogs in the well-oiled (if resigned and surly) machine they were, that excitement would take over from anxiety. And in the meantime he had a long weekend - one last hurrah of imagined freedom for the summer.

He was already missing his girls, but the prospect of having his daughter arriving up north tomorrow made the first week of work less jarring. And, since they were sticking around for a while, he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about this jaunt down to L.A. No business this time, just indulgent hanging out with his friends, and some time out with Misha before he’d be spending most of their week seeing his friend in that fucking suit and angular coat. When, it had to be said, Misha would no doubt do everything he was asked with quiet professional dignity, showing up what a shit _he_ could be when he wasn’t having to juggle a million balls in the air as director. Jensen was unsure Misha turned up to his set with that amenable supportive attitude just to be some kind of backhanded asshole or because he loved him, but since those often seemed to naturally co-exist he assumed it was a matter of both.

Skipping to the top step he knocked awkwardly on gnarled wood, unable to fight with his born ‘n’ bred manners despite the fact the door had, he assumed, been left ajar for him. It was nice to be expected, but he envied his friends’ casual adherence to informality and normality.

He stepped through the entrance with a low “Hel-lo—“ into the hallway, hearing footsteps approach while he was turned to latch the door.

“Hey, gorgeous,” came the trilled reply, causing a brief frown to shadow his brow. He spun on his heels as the woman approached him, wiping her hand on a tea-towel before slinging it over her shoulder and pulling him into a welcoming hug.

“Hey, Vic,” he said, returning it one armed while wondering if he’d misinterpreted the arrangement for the evening. When they’d scheduled this visit it was on Misha’s suggestion, taking advantage of the fact he was going to be on his own for the evening, having offered to care for the kids on the holiday while Vicki went to some out of town party or something-or-other. He hadn’t bothered to pay attention to the details, he had enough details to remember already this week. Maybe she was still on her way out he reasoned as she pulled away.

“I’ll let you go put that the spare room,” she said, nodding at his bag, “just creep past the kid’s doors, they’re having a quick nap since we’re taking them out later.”

“Um, okay,” he smiled, despite a small knot of disappointment lodging low in his chest. He tried to brush it aside as he strolled down the familiar hallway. It wasn’t that he didn’t like spending time around Misha’s wife - he adored her, in his own way, and they’d been doing this long enough now that any awkwardness was long past. But (call him selfish) sharing Misha while he was here wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

Dropping his things, he paused in the bathroom for a half-assed attempt at taming his hat-hair, and a moment to lament there were only another few days until he’d again be unsure whether it would be himself or Dean that looked back at him whenever he passed a mirror. He must have looked speculative when he arrived back in the living area as his hostess answered his question before the first syllable was out.

“He’s just at the store, picking up something I need for dinner. He’ll be back any minute, I promise,” she finished with a quirked smile.

Jesus, was he that obvious. “Thanks,” he returned, undertone intentionally wry.

“Drink?” she asked from behind the counter.

“Sure.”

“Wine?”

“Why not,” he accepted warmly, taking a stool at the end of the bench as she glided to the refrigerator.

“I’ve been saving this one for you,” Vicki announced, pouring generously. “I think it will suit your palate.”

“You’re too good to me Vic,” he said, taking the delicately blown glass she slid towards him.

“Don’t you forget it,” she chimed pointedly.

He felt his face twist into a self-effacing smirk. He hid his flush in his drink, nosing into the aperture and taking a long mouthful, crisp and dense with wooded flavour. “You know what Victoria?” he said after swallowing, “don’t ever let me forget it.”

She narrowed her look. “Hmmm, deal,” she returned slowly, as if ruminating on ways to fulfil their spontaneous contract.

“And you’re right, this is very good,” he confirmed, raising the glass up to her.

“Cheers,” she offered with a dull clink and holding his eye, hers sparkling behind ubiquitous glasses.

The door to the garden opened abruptly as his friend strode in, shooting him a quick smile as he swung the brown bags he carried onto the adjacent counter. _God, he really is wearing that shirt_ , Jensen thought, remembering with a nether jolt the ‘Happy 4th of July’ overture he’d received that morning, in the form of a selfie of Misha languidly reclining on the lawn. It was lurid and beckoning, but tenderly intimate; his face soft, a hint of tongue behind his bottom lip and eyes pensive yet compelling. Shadows dappled over the stars & stripes decorating his polo, leaving in full sunlight the hand intruding down his undone fly exposing a hooded peek of— _Shit, don’t zone out with an idiot fucking smile on your face._

Jensen mentally shook his attention back on track, hoping his practiced composure hadn’t let him down. “Speak of the devil,” he drawled, winking at the woman still sharing his gaze.

Misha spun in their direction, suspicion giving way to amusement. “Oh, nice, you two are joining forces to fuck with me now, instead of independently?” he accused, throwing his hat aside in mock indignation.

Vicki looked over her shoulder at her husband. “Well it was going to happen ev—“

She was cut off by a set of muffled sobs from down the hall. “And that would be my exit cue,” she muttered, rounding the bench where he sat. “Bet she’s woken up hot, and’ll be grumpy for the next hour. She’s always taken after her father,” she finished conspiratorially towards his ear.

His friend sighed as he watched her exit the room, finally grumbling as he moved to put the groceries away, “I’m rarely grumpy when I wake up. I love the heat. I _love_ naps,” pretending it genuinely bothered him as he bent over to shelve something in the cupboard. “Back me up on this, would you?” he asked, straightening abruptly like he suddenly doubted himself.

Jensen finished his drink before deciding to answer. “You’re a picture of congeniality in the morning,” he assured, pushing his glass suggestively towards the open bottle in the middle of the counter and looking up through his lashes at Misha.

His friend gave him a hard look as he picked up the bottle. “One of us has to be.”

Jensen parted his lips to form retort as Misha, eyeing him studiously, hesitated with the pour. He decided he’d prefer another drink to having the last word, and snapped his jaw shut. It’s not like he had truth on his side on that score.

Misha reigned in a smug smile as he filled the glass, then fossicked for another to pour himself. Picking up Jensen’s he walked round his shoulder, setting the glass down at his elbow before looping his arms over Jensen’s shoulders to cross under his chin. “Hey,” he rasped at Jensen’s ear, sliding one palm inside the ‘v’ of his shirt and tightening his backwards embrace.

Jensen closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, settling to allow them a slight rock together. “Hey,” he eventually hummed back, content to stay under his friend’s drape until he felt compelled to bring up the source of his hesitation. “So, uh… Vic’s here.”

“Yeah, did I not warn you? I thought I had,” Misha mused, brushing a scratchy cheek over the shell of Jensen’s ear. “She… well, long story short: she had plans to be out for the night, then her friend’s mother decided to pay a last minute visit for the holiday.”

“Uh, okay—“ he said, not quite getting the point.

“Said mother, apparently, has been on an extended journey of acceptance regarding her daughter marrying another woman, so they thought surprising her with the addition she was also in a poly relationship with a happily married mother of two, might be one too many kinds of coming out, for now at least,” Misha finished with a sigh.

“Oh… ah. Got it.” He wasn’t sure why he should be surprised. Vicki’s private life was hers and Misha’s business, but this was the first he’d heard of a current interest.

“Sorry to spring her on you,” Misha consoled, nosing behind his ear where he was vaguely ticklish and made him fight the urge squirm every time. In this instance he lost, his friend humming a low chuckle and lifting a hand to knead playfully proprietary fingers into his hair once Jensen was done involuntarily scrunching his shoulder.

Distracted, he didn’t hear they had company again until small arms squeezed over his thigh. Jensen’s eye travelled to Vicki as she came into the room, carrying her daughter who was adorably soft and blotchy, hair scruffed up one side of her head. He was keenly aware Misha hadn’t moved, one hand still tucked inside Jensen’s collar and the other on his head, chest cloaking his back without a hint of self awareness.

He reached to ruffle West’s hair. “Hey buddy,” he said in his best ‘I know I’m sorta your uncle so ignore your Dad groping me’ voice, but the child was already sliding way, his attention taken elsewhere just ahead of Vicki swishing past. She offloaded Maison into Misha’s rapidly assembled hold on her way, saying cheerily “Here, Daddy wants you,” without leaving room to negotiate whose responsibility the grouchy baby was.

Misha cooed at her, taking an aggressive mollification approach as his wife rooted around in the fridge behind them. “Let’s go outside shall we?” he suggested in a sing-song voice, dropping a hand to the back of Jensen’s neck as he turned. He took that to mean he was included in the directive, confirmed when Misha commanded “bring the wine,” in a hoarse whisper. “You too Westie, come on.”

Jensen stood, balanced their glasses and bottle between curled fingers and followed them out, pausing while Misha’s son shyly mumbled something into his mother’s leg. “Yes, I’ll bring you one, just go on outside,” she replied, and he spun happily to try and push past Misha out the door.

“Jay, want ice cream?” Vicki asked him as he moved past her.

“Umm-“

“It’s homemade…” she qualified brightly.

“Of course it is,” he grinned back. “Sure, anything to cool down.”

“I’ll be right out.”

He joined the small family out under a tree, commandeering a wooden chair a few feet away from where Misha was perched on the grass with Maison on his lap. A light breeze shifted the heat from being claustrophobic, and in the shade it was actually pleasant.

There were times he missed L.A. – the brash contrasts, the dry taste on the back of his tongue, the closeness of friends he left here. But at least when he (or the girls too) got to spend a weekend here, he could work in quality downtime. Such as the couple of nights on this trip; the first at Jason’s where, let’s face it, the night was always going to get out of hand, and tonight, with Misha— well _supposed to be with Misha_ , he churlishly thought. It was a second let down after his friend had blown off the party last night as well.

“A man can die of thirst over here you know,” Misha said, breaking him out of his study.

“Sorry. Pacing myself – I’m still in recovery.”

“Good night, I take it?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Missed you though, everyone did,” he felt compelled to add as he topped up the glasses to empty bottle. He leaned to pass one to Misha, his daughter still listless and reclining against his chest. He must have picked up his hat and sunglasses from the bench on his way out because he was wearing them again, and the fact he couldn’t see his eyes bothered Jensen right now. Not to mention that fucking hat – now _that_ did still make him smile.

Misha parted his mouth but hesitated before he spoke. “That’s… one of the reasons I didn’t come. I knew it would get messy. And I could do without messy at the moment. Vee thought so too.” He delved his nose in the glass and took a long gulp, the gesture plainly incongruous with his sentiment.

Jensen just nodded, digesting Misha’s oblique words. Because yeah, he wasn’t being flippant when he said he missed him. There were few times they could be sociable together and really _be_ together, with their guard down… well, mostly down; there were limits. But he really liked being able to being around Misha and his friends. _Their_ friends.

He was feeling more and more cheated, especially by Misha’s choice of explanation. It was no secret that Vicki wore the pants much of the time, but since when did she tell him what he couldn’t do?

Seeing Vicki approach out of the corner of his eye he tried to shrug it off, grudgingly telling himself he was probably being over sensitive on top of being a little put-out. She arrived with the promised ice cream; two cones for the kids and a single bowl, which she lastly handed to him.

“Cheers – just me is it?”

“Ah-hmm,” she confirmed inadequately.

“So I’m one of the kids then,” he said, genuine petulance rolling over the small measure he meant to fake.

“You saying you don’t deserve a treat?” Vicki replied, brow arched with mischief. “I can rescind the offer and take it back.”

He puckered his mouth to the left as he strategized, eventually spooning a large scoop from the bowl. “Let it never be said I don’t know on which side my bread is buttered,” he said with ominous aplomb, letting his accent flourish. He followed by making a show of inserting the mouthful because _damn, was she riding his ass today or what_? And to top it off, it tasted unfairly good as it melted to the back of his palate.

He glanced at Misha, wondering if he’d caught this little exchange, but he was occupied catching the drips from Maison’s cone, pointed tongue deftly rescuing the rapidly sagging dessert, molding it back to shape with curling precision and tucking the droplets back behind his lips, throat bobbing with each swallow and _THIS WAS NOT FAIR_  Jensen exclaimed internally, feeling his own stare and the spoon lodged forgotten in his mouth. He felt accosted on all sides.

Misha happened to look up then, straight at him judging by the glint behind the bronze lens, and his brain - either in a swift move of solidarity or in lust-driven auto-response – incited him to make a play with his own mouth. Letting the metal catch on his lips, he extracted the spoon with a voluptuous slide before going back to retrieve a trace of cream from the heel with the flat of his tongue. A quick dart of his eyes confirmed he held Misha’s attention, cone blankly held in front of his face as Maison valiantly tried to reclaim it from her distracted father.

Feeling a little redeemed he risked a quick look at the woman still standing to his side just in time to catch her roll her eyes. _YES._ _Point to the interloper._

“I’ll start on dinner,” she announced, turning as she added to Misha “can I rely on you to get the BBQ going in about a half hour?” Misha merely answered with a salute, and after watching her leave lifted a much more alert (and messy) Maison to stand before doing so himself, taking his glass in hand and joining Jensen in an adjacent chair.

He made to finish his ice cream, keeping a half-eye on the other man slouching to stretch out, drawing a long line between his relaxed foot up over his bare knees to where his head casually rested atop the chair-back, profile lifted to catch the draft.

“You are free to stop wearing that hat, y’know,” he eventually posed into the easy silence.

Misha turned his head slightly, but offered nothing other than the slightest tug of a smile at his mouth.

“I think you’ve done your penance,” he added.

After appearing to think on it for a long moment, his friend announced blithely “As it happens, I’ve grown quite fond of it. So you can tell your wife to go fuck herself.”

Jensen just about choked on his last mouthful, dizzying laughter catching him off-guard and tumbling out into the garden from low in his chest. Misha continued to sit serenely, sipping his beverage whilst plainly ignoring him trying and failing spectacularly to breathe ice cream.

“I will tell her, so yeah…maybe you’d better keep it,” he said once he’d co-ordinated his bodily functions again. “Though she’d probably just take that as an invitation anyway.”

That admission warranted a small chuckle from the other man. “What can I say, I’m a cock,” Misha conceded with a sideways smirk. “If I have to be labelled thus,” he continued, tapping the brim with his forefinger, “I may as well live up to it.”

Jensen pulled up his bottom lip and nodded in agreement. “Every cock for himself,” he proposed, lifting his glass, Misha copying him in unity.

They managed to fill in the next half hour or so in idle chatter, punctuated by long pauses and the occasional break to tell West to stop digging holes in the lawn, or accepting gifts of colorful fistfuls of torn petals from Maison. Eventually Misha remembered his BBQ duty and went to set it going, while Jensen decided it would be impolite to accept a meal without having a shower first, feeling the combined heat, exertion and hangover leaving a greasy sour trace on his skin.

After first asking if Misha needed any help, he excused himself inside, passing Vicki in the kitchen.

“Mind if I go clean up?” he asked, pointing his thumb down the hall. “Then I can do somethin’…help, if you need me.”

“Go right ahead,” she answered, nodding in the same direction. “You know where to find everything. But I think we’ve got things here covered without you.”

“Uh, okay then,” he said vaguely. “Taa.”

He made his way past the cupboard to acquire a towel on his way to the bathroom, and took a longer shower than was probably necessary. A feeling itched at him that he tried to wash off, and when he pulled a clean shirt over his head, he found himself shrugging and rolling his shoulders and neck around trying to get comfortable. Finally he deflated onto the bed and lay back to stare entreatingly at the bare ceiling.

After a few minutes there was a gentle tap on the door, the author opening it enough to twist his head into the room before Jensen could answer.

“Just me,” Misha said, as if it wasn’t self-evident.

“And I was expecting the Easter Bunny,” he snarked back, out of habit.

Misha ignored it – probably also out of habit. They had accumulated a lot of habits by now.

“You ok?” his friend asked, brow lightly furrowing as he stepped through the door and closed it.

“Yeah, I guess,” he answered, crunching to sit and leaning back on the headboard.

“And sincerity is usually one of your virtues,” Misha airily accused.

Jensen levelled a hard look at him then scrunched his nose. His eyes dropped to Misha’s waist and tracked him as he crossed the room and unceremoniously straddled him to land in his lap. He met the denim stare and held it steady.

“Talk to me,” his friend implored, like an echo.

Jensen didn’t know yet what to say, so instead he reached to tug the placket of his shirt and pulled him into a slender kiss, realizing with sudden hunger it was the first time today they’d done so. Just as he was responding to the visceral call to deepen it, Misha broke it off, leaning back to eye him with speculative patience.

“If Vee asked you to give me up, would you?” he asked in a rush, because it just came out, and he was a shit sometimes.

Misha looked taken aback, but recovered quickly. “She wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, but would you?” he reiterated, earnestly this time.

“She never would.”

Jensen took a deep breath. “You seem sure,” he charged, looking away from the intense surveillance.

“I am sure, Jen,” Misha returned gently.

Jensen waited a moment before looking at him again, into him; searching for further reassurance, for clemency, for the tide of generosity that he relied on to flow through him, filling in some of the little pits and potholes he accumulated.

“If I wasn’t sure, then we probably wouldn’t _be_ here,” the other man qualified.

Jensen gave a little nod, acknowledging the point, and the sincerity of it. A contrite smile sneaked onto his face. “Sorry,” he began wryly, “that was shitty of me. I’m an asshole.”

Misha hoisted his bottom lip and shrugged, failing to disagree with him. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” he teased dramatically.

A rush of abashment and empathy gnarled his expression and his friend grinned at him. “Being so attractive helps,” Misha announced, but before Jensen could cast back disdain Misha’s mouth landed on his in a very _not_ playful way, pinning him firmly as his a tongue sliced the seam of his lips and rolled over his, massaging away the last of his restlessness.

Jensen could have stayed and made out for the rest of day, and judging by the way Misha began rocking his hips into him and tangled his fingers into a firm grip in his hair, he was in no hurry leave the moment. He clawed at the other man’s shirt front while Misha pulled roughly at his scalp, making a guttural frustrated noise at the back of his throat and yeah, Jensen was in no way unhappy about triggering his friend’s ire and demonstrative authority, because he was that kind of shit sometimes too.

His need to have his selfishness violently pulled from him gave way to noble practicality, so he cupped Misha’s jaw with both hands to draw his friend back. To his satisfaction, Misha watched as he flicked his tongue over his bottom lip then sucked it in, before looking him inquiringly in the eye.

“You’re not in here while dinner is burning are you?” he asked.

Misha shrugged. “Eh, no….but I probably should go start the traditional process of ruining perfectly good food with fire. I’d rather stay and trade spit with you though.”

Jensen chuckled. “You really know how to take the romance out of everything, don’tchya.”

“All romance is but a deception,” Misha fired back thoughtfully, before kneeling abruptly and dismounting the bed.

“Mish,” he said, halting his friend as he turned away. He sat forward and reached so he could straighten Misha’s shirt, the hem twisted incriminatingly askew. “There,” he added, satisfied.

His friend gave him soft slanted smile, then bent to graze Jensen’s forehead with his lips in benediction. “Come out, when you’re ready,” he said with a wink as he turned and left the room, leaving Jensen to roll his eyes at only himself.

Finding no reason to stay, and with a new easiness he joined the family again. He and Misha shared another bottle, him entertaining the kids whilst the other man, as promised, sufficiently burned the meat as Vicki bustled in and out with various dishes. He was just starting to grow tired (and a little lurchy) from giving Maison her fifth giggling dance while she balanced on his feet, when dinner was announced.

The heat remained but had thinned, lending a balmy air to the encroaching evening. The food was good, the company effortless (apart from the fact he seemed to be seconded into Dad duty) and by the time he’d helped clear the leftovers and plates away and retired to the living room with another drink he couldn’t recall acquiring, he was feeling satiated and lazy. So it was with a reluctant start he met the announcement it was time to pile the children in the car to head up into the park, a plan he’d only vaguely taken notice of.

“You can stay, if you’d rather. It’s just that we promised them. Well, he promised them,” Vicki said nodding towards her husband as he arrived in the room. He briefly contemplated the merits staying right where he was but soon decided that since this was a family occasion, and however disjointed or ephemeral his belonging was, he was a part of it.

Misha enforced his decision, managing a shrill dog-whistle and loudly herding everyone out to the vehicle with officious claps. Vicki drove, soberly, while Misha tried, and failed, to find a song for the kids to sing along with. By the time they’d parked and trudged to the peak, dusk was turning the clear (for Los Angeles) sky multi-hued and the city’s lights began blinking below them.

The kids were buoyant, but hitting that over-tired stage and beginning to snipe at each other. Occasionally other couples would walk by but for the most part the only company they had was another family with two tweens milling around some yards from them, out of hearing range and paying them no attention.

Jensen took a few moments from the family group, wandering away to stand looking out at the vista. It had been a long time since he was up here, and he surveyed the city he’d left behind just over a year ago with mixed feelings. It had been the right decision at the time, for the right reasons. But the sacrifices – his time, relationships, the fucking ridiculous commuting, had come at a cost. So he was glad they’d decided to try devoting longer chunks of time on the coast – either here or the northwest. He hadn’t appreciated just how much he’d needed the families he’d acquired, how much he’d moved beyond Texas until he went back there. It was his anchor, but it wasn’t the only place he was truly home.

A sharp cry pulled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see Misha comforting Maison, whom looked to have had an accident. He watched her as he picked her up, wiped her tears with his thumb, kissed her palm, then her nose, and let Vicki try to distract her with something she saw in the distance. When the toddler stuck to her injured guns Misha instigated some kind of chasing game, enlisting her brother to help. Within moments the sobbing had turned to squeals of scared delight, the children circling their father like wolves but darting out of his reach when he growled and lunged at them, and giggling into the settling twilight when they were caught and thrown over his shoulder before being spun and eventually set back on their feet to begin again.

He must have been standing there looking like he was growing ovaries or some shit because he didn’t notice Misha’s wife approaching until she was next to him, silent but for her palm resting on his shoulder closest to her.

Jensen blurted the first thing that came into his head. “He always seems to know exactly what they need,” he said, a hint of envy colouring his tone, due in part to the feeling that no matter how long he’d been a father himself he was still just winging it much of the time. Then, because his filter was impaired, he kept going. “He always seems to know what anyone needs. I wish _he_ knew that," he finished, fervent.

“I think he does, sometimes to his detriment,” the woman at his side answered quietly.

Jensen hummed a wry noise and shoved his fingers in his front pockets. “It makes me feel selfish. You know, sometimes.”

“There are times he gives too much,” Vicki said. “But then that’s part of our job; to pull him back, keep him safe.”

He smiled weakly at her for a moment. “He’s stronger… and more vulnerable than he looks, isn’t he,” he said rhetorically.

She didn’t answer, but slipped her hand down his back and around his waist, pulling herself closer with a squeeze on his hip. He leaned into her and tried to think of something else to say, but his scattered thoughts were interrupted by a harmonised call of “Mommy!” from the other three, standing against the dimming skyline with their hands in the air.

Vicki eased away to walk over to them, and after being handed Misha’s phone stepped back a few feet to hold it up, taking photos of the trio in their stance. He had no idea what they were doing, but they all seemed happy.

They were crowded around the phone seeing the results when the first skyrocket bloomed behind them, making them turn with various excited (and relieved) coos and gasps. Jensen decided he’d better join them and made his way over to stand at Misha’s side. The show was intermittent at first but picked up after ten minutes or so, at which point Maison decided, in contrary child fashion, that she was over the experience.

”Come’ere Maisy-Daisy,” he said, hoisting her onto his shoulders with a delighted squawk. It seemed to help at first, but before long they decided that they’d done what they decided to do and it was time to go home.

Jensen carried Maison back down through the near-dark to the vehicle, and by the time they were pulling to a stop in the driveway her sleeping head had lolled out of the confines of her seat and onto his shoulder. He lifted her out and took her up the steps before placing her into the waiting arms of her mother. Misha herded his son down the hallway after the women, and Jensen sank gratefully into the couch, wondering how soon he could politely go to bed, the evening’s abundance of food accompanied by alcohol leaving him listless, as did the knowledge sleep was going to be at a premium the next week or so.

Vicki arrived back into the living room first and sat on the adjacent couch, pulling her ankles up beside her. “Can I get you anything else to drink? Or maybe—“ she trailed off, holding her pressed thumb and forefinger to her lips in the universal signal for joint.

“Ahh,” he started, considering the offer. “Naa, I better quit while I’m ahead. Gotta get on a plane first thing in the morning, and it’s probably going to be another big one tomorrow,” he said, suddenly remembering the family converging in Vancouver tomorrow for the soccer game.

“Sociable weekend huh?” she smiled.

“Have to have summer go out with a bang,” he agreed with a shrug.

Misha chose that moment to arrive back in the room, hesitating to consider something before moving across to the cabinet in the corner to put some music on - some slow electronic crap that was sure to put him to sleep. He was mildly surprised however when Misha chose to sit down close to his side; so close he had to shift his splayed leg, Misha’s knee relaxing against his and his elbow resting on Jensen’s stomach.

Nobody seemed to feel the need to say anything as Jensen sat and felt…. _claimed_. But in such a way that he didn’t mind at all, and only left him feeling a hint of repentance. Vicki just stretched her smile, studying them carelessly like they were her eccentric Aunt and Uncle or something, before making a sudden move to stand.

“I’m going to finish the clean-up. Want anything Hon?” she asked her husband, currently tapping out an incongruous rhythm on Jensen’s thigh.

“No, thanks—Ahh, actually tea, please. If you’re offering. Oh and water,” Misha requested, grinning apologetically.

“Anything else?” Vicki asked pointedly.

“That is all. You may go.”

His wife poked her tongue out at him as she exited the room. After she’d disappeared Misha turned towards him, asking “What?” as his likely dubious expression.

“You’re a braver man than me.”

Misha merely winked in return, before settling his head back against the rear of the seat and taking a cleansing breath. Jensen looked across the room and let the bass seep into his bones, gradually zoning out. Vicki delivered the tea after a few minutes, and by the time she emerged from the kitchen a second time Jensen had closed his eyes and had let his ear fall against Misha’s shoulder, echoing Maison in the car earlier.

Sensing she was in the room he righted himself with a start, aware of being too blasé with her husband’s personal space in their home. Their familiarity and acceptance was one thing, but Jensen’s manners kept him from crossing the line into casual. The woman didn’t seem to be paying him any attention however as she bent over her husband from behind to brush her fingers over his forehead and leave a perfunctory kiss there.

“G’night” she said softly, straightening again, adding “and keep it down, okay? If you wake up the kids, Momma is _not_ going to be happy.”

Misha reached over his shoulder to catch her hand briefly as she moved away, his face split with a soft smile which turned cocky as he took in Jensen’s face. He wasn’t sure what Misha saw there but it evoked a chuckle in response.

“Was she joking?” he asked, genuinely unsure.

“Oh she’s always joking, and as serious as a heart attack,” his friend replied, completely unhelpfully before patting his knee and standing up. “I’ll just take these out okay,” he said, picking up the stray mugs. “Sure you don’t need anything?”

“I’m good,” he said, lazily stretching his limbs. “I’ll just be here.”

“Back soon,” Misha promised softly as he left.

Jensen relished being left to himself for a moment. Bone deep contentment pooled with sleepy post-tipsy warmth. Ignoring decorum and better judgement he closed his eyes and let his shoulder slide down to lie in the centre of the long couch. Tucking his bare feet up against the arm, he rested his temple on his outstretched bicep after a sluggish aborted attempt to reach for a cushion.

His mind was awake but his body was lobbying hard for sleep, and the furniture offered no good incentive for why he should move.

He felt the air shift as Misha returned, and waited for the inevitable orders. “You look less than comfortable,” was the mild observation.

Jensen went for the obvious flirt in response, which was easiest when his eyelids felt like lead. “Make me more comfortable,” he smiled, exaggerating a come-hither tone and beckoning blindly with his palm. He followed it up with a pat in front of his face, and then a brief squint after a decided lack of compliance.

“If I get down there with you neither of us will want to move again,” Misha argued, contrarily planting his rear in front of Jensen’s knees.

“So?” Jensen challenged, looking up just long enough to find and tug at the hem of his friend’s sleeve.

“So, my back will hate you in the morning. Plus there’s fuck knows how many sedimentary layers of crumbs and lost toys in this couch,” Misha grumbled, edging down nonetheless. “Probably enough to make an archaeologist excited.”

Jensen hoisted his shoulder enough that he could fold Misha back-to-front against him, dark head resting on the curve of his arm. Looping an ankle over his companion’s shin, he burrowed his free palm under Misha's shirt to rest against his collapsed chest, then relaxed. Ear to ear, he nosed in to his friend’s jaw just behind the stubble line, binding him in place. Misha didn’t seem to mind, grunting lightly as he squirmed to line them up like polite silverware. He closed his eyes, absently rolling the stray hairs on Misha’s chest between the pads of his fingers as he let his thoughts dissolve into the welcome inertia.

“So tell me again why aren’t we doing this in bed?” his friend asked after a few minutes. The snug silence almost had Jensen dozing off again to the shared rhythm of their breathing.

“Shhh” he mouthed into Misha’s scratchy neck, “we’re canoodling.”

“I have nothing against a good canoodle,” his friend rumbled. “I am, as you know, an ardent and accomplished canoodler.”

“Mmmph,” was all he could muster in acknowledgement, expecting Misha to reach a point eventually.

“I just want to be clear that I’m neither sleeping here, nor feeling charitable enough to attempt carrying you. So, if you want to share a bed, let’s take this wild party elsewhere.”

He responded with an unimpressed noise.

“I have other options, just sayin’,” Misha threatened in a curling drawl.

 _Bastard_.

Jensen heaved onto his elbow to peer down at his friend, Misha shuffling to look back across his shoulder expectantly. He felt like he was being tested.

A faint cloud of jealousy threatened, but before it had time to reach him and ferment it evaporated, consumed by the searing vehemence of all he felt for this man, and the circumstances that allowed him to experience him, to be loved by him.

It came as somewhat of a surprise; he’d always felt a kind of pecking order with Vicki, indebted to her as he was for the slice of Misha he got to indulge in, and he felt greedy taking it since it really was a generous portion. But the realization dawned that it wasn’t an allocation at all, and that ‘he & Misha’ were… autonomous. He didn’t have a divided portion at all. In fact he could, and did have all of Misha that needed.

It took him aback, how unexpectedly liberating it was; the subtle switch of recognition that while he was now a part of this bigger, well, _family_ , but not beholden to it. In that moment he was quite sure he’d never feel an ounce of resentment or possessiveness again.

“You wouldn’t,” he pouted with an epic plunge of his bottom lip, deciding he wasn’t so sleepy and loved-up he could pass up an opportunity to choose the bait and turn it back on him, somehow, if he could find a way—

“Make me an offer I can’t refuse then.”

Jensen hiked his brows. “Is that a come-on, or an ultimatum? I can’t tell.”

“Take your pick,” Misha deadpanned back, “either invariably works.”

“Fucker,” he growled, donning an exaggerated frown.

“Works for m—“

But he was already moving, extinguishing the imminent smart-assery with the crush of his mouth, catching the corner of Misha’s due to the awkward angle and dragging the cushy top lip between the hard press of his own. Misha rolled to his back and conceded as Jensen lifted his torso and planted his hips, sweeping his tongue belligerently against his friend’s. He infused the kiss with every passive-aggressive _love-hate-you not gonna beg but I dare you to refuse_ animosity he had stored up over time, but somewhere between the third roll of his pelvis and Misha’s fingers curling over the back of his neck and clenching into his hair it became more _need-you want-you, drowning let me drown_ , turning the irony back on him.

With Misha, the joke was always on him.

Grappling with dopamine for his dignity, his last incursion was to test Misha’s limit for privacy, abruptly feeling cavalier with the chance - however unlikely - that Vicki or even one of the kids could interrupt them. Humming a tight growl, he wrenched his mouth away and backed into a half-crouch, enough that he could shove at the hem of his friend’s shirt, dotting the lightly sheened skin with nips of his teeth as he exposed his chest, savoring the tang of sun on his tongue on the way. Once it he had it bunched under Misha’s chin he landed another short hard kiss, issuing a curt order as he departed.

“Off.”

Misha at least had the courtesy to look a little glazed as he complied, contorting beneath him out of the garment, hair mussed and cheeks flushed with So-Cal heat and….well, _sex._

There were times when Misha looked at him, eyes large and earnest and as infinite as the sky, and it was like holding court with an angel (and fuck his life for that analogy being the best one); cradled, nurtured within an entire azure universe. But sometimes, Misha just looked like sex. _FACT_. Like that pic from this morning, and yes, _he was here for that_.

Painting an unhurried stripe chin to belly button, he twisted his fingers to pop the button on Misha’s shorts then peeled the zip. Hollowing into the opening he began to mouth along the line of arousal, his lips stretching into a grin when he took notice of the fabric encasing his friends cock. The dark blue was imprinted with a flag and overlaid by the imposing face of a bald eagle. He darted his eyes to Misha’s smooth face and he asked himself, not for the first time, how the fuck he was in love with such a prime dork.

“What?” Misha asked at the pause, looking at him down the line of his chest. “Joke gift, when else am I going to wear them?” he explained impatiently.

“Seriously? A patriotic pecker?” He bowed his head and erupted into silent laughter at his own (admittedly fairly terrible) joke, but it was late and he was a compromised by fatigue and lust and the tail end of a buzz.

Once the fit had passed he looked up, Misha appearing infuriatingly calm, palms cradling his head as he lay waiting imperiously. One speculative eyebrow was cocked and his lips were set in a hard line, but warmth flickered through his gaze. “Come ‘ere, you smarmy shit,” he eventually breathed, reaching to pull at Jensen’s shoulder.

He obliged, crawling back and allowing his face to be cupped and pulled into another kiss; luxuriant this time, his friend leading by methodically kneading his lips and chasing his suddenly shy tongue as fingertips wandered down his sides to rouche his tee from the hem. Taking the hint, he stood on his knees and rocked back as he slowly raised his shirt over his head, his skin charged by the caress of cotton and air. Dropping it to the floor, he leaned forward again and—

“Motherfaa—“ he gasped, pain lancing through his left kneecap.

“What?” Misha repeated, concerned this time.

Jensen rummaged in the couch where he kneeled, eventually locating the culprit. He pulled out a cast Mickey Mouse atop a matchbox type toy car, and held it up for scorn.

“Well that killed my patriotism,” he muttered, tossing it on the floor, belatedly realizing it would be his luck to go standing on it in the dark later.

He looked at Misha who shrugged unsympathetically. “I did warn you.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Yeah-yeah,” he sang, moving to stand, scooping up his shirt as he went and taking a second to adjust himself. “You win, let’s go. Bed it is.”

Misha hesitated, and he started to wonder with disappointment if his friend really was prepared to bed hop.

“Are you okay with me being with you, here?” Misha asked hurriedly.

Jensen halted a smile for dramatic effect. “Are you calling me a prude?” he teased, pokerfaced.

Misha looked satisfyingly dismayed, though one brow hoarded amusement; his face could be a circus.

“No," he began earnestly, "I just didn’t want—fucker,” he relented, seeing Jensen’s reptilian grin. He took a breath and measuredly began again. “I just wanted to be sure you felt… at home? And not… weird, with Vic—fuck, never mind. Can we just go finish getting out of these clothes?

Jensen held out his hand in invitation. “As you wish,” he replied solemnly.

Misha, looking unfairly disgruntled, threw a hand to grasp his and allowed Jensen to haul him to him feet. Making their way to the bedroom, Misha announced he would have a quick shower and join him in a few minutes.

After brushing his teeth, discarding his remaining garments and pausing for a jaw-dislocating yawn, Jensen decided to push off all the covers on the bed bar the sheet and arranged himself underneath. By the time Misha flipped the light and slipped in on his stomach beside him, he was detached and once more dancing on the edge of sleep.

His companion stretched, arching his sides before vigorously fluffing his pillow and coming to rest. Jensen could just make out his face, the urban ambient light catching his cheekbone; a sharp crescent like the moon that had him impulsively reaching his little finger to graze the line of shadow. He could feel rather than see the dark study of Misha’s eyes on his features in return.

Drawing in the question he saw there alongside a deep breath, he rolled to sprawl over Misha’s back, caging him for the second time that evening. This time uninhibited skin-to-skin full body contact had him nestling his cheek between the wings of his friend’s shoulders with a charged hum.

“Thanks,” he rasped sincerely after a minute or so, feeling indeed grateful and punctuating it by stretching his lips to deposit a flower of indistinct kisses on the nearest contact. Then he changed tack and began rocking his pelvis, cosying his groin under Misha’s cheeks to adhere them closer. “This suburban bed-hopping lark has its perks.”

A muffled snort vibrated underneath him. “You make it sound sordid. This isn’t the seventies.”

He dusted his beard at the top of his lover’s spine, letting the bristles play against the skin, for his own tactual benefit more than anything. “Well you would know, I wasn’t around then,” he fired back, only for Misha to change the subject, a shiver rippling across his back.

“I know summers are miserably short, but I’m looking forward to you shaving again.”

Jensen pouted against his back at the betrayal. Then 'humphed' for extra effect.

“It tickles. You know it’s not a sensation I respond well to,” Misha grumped.

 _Well that was asking for it, really_.

Shunting up a little, he scratched his whiskers upwards over Misha’s neck and ear before embarking on a devastating and merciless tickle spree, planting his weight in his shoulders to jab fingertips into Misha’s ribs on both sides. The other man bucked, letting out an indignant cry followed by a string of wheeze-interrupted expletives, the sum of which had Jensen chortling as he rode out the jerking protest.

He kept the attack short and sharp. “Shhh,” he admonished, looping his elbows emphatically around Misha’s and pressing down to quell him while they both caught their breath. “We don’t want Mom in here telling us off.”

Misha growled.

“I’m sorry,” Jensen qualified, out of habit.

“No you’re not.”

“No,” he agreed, “but can I make it up with a sensation you do respond to?” He slid lower again to languidly rut against the crevice of the other man’s ass. He was too tired and comfortable to really be aroused, but he was feeling especially sensually greedy, like a cat relentlessly claiming and petting itself against its owner.

Misha made a grunting noise that lacked any sign of protest, so he increased the pressure and preciseness of the movement, letting his tepid erection roll gently round the curves that cushioned him.

“Don’t start something you aren’t going to finish,” his companion murmured drowsily.

Jensen, emboldened for reasons he didn’t stop to analyze, rose onto his elbows and nipped his way up Misha’s back until he was within range of his left ear. “Why, you don’t think I’d fuck you with your wife down the hall?” he husked, cock quickening at his own words and a sharp thrust along the dip of the other man’s spine.

Misha, being Misha, took the bet and with a snigger, raised him. “Why, you don’t think she’d really prefer to come watch?”

He laughed again, an unsure mixture of concession and deliberation while he shuffled his length back onto the sheet, vaguely able to make out a defiant eyebrow arched in his direction. “You’d think I’d know better by now,” he said in resignation, propping his head on a fist. “Wait, have you guys talked about this?”

“We talk ‘bout ‘most everything,” Misha slurred idly, before adding, “and, y’know... wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jensen couldn’t help pulling a face, reacting more to a splash of the jealousy he thought he’d forsaken than at Misha’s ‘lifestyle’ choices. It had taken him a while to understand the nuances in how each of them related to sex. He was, for example, as capable of an empty quick fuck as the next guy (or girl, because seriously), but when he was _in_ something, sex was almost unfailingly overtaken as a vehicle of emotion, whether he wanted it to be or not. Whereas Misha, for all his seeming permanent readiness for action and unerring ability to turn any conversation into a dirty one, appeared to view sex as part of some kind of ongoing conversation; with himself as much as whomever he’d connected to. It was an awareness that had left Jensen off balance in the past, both in bed and out.

Misha, characteristically, must have heard him thinking. “You’re different, though.”

“Huh?” he asked blankly, his attention returning from a quick nostalgic trip down insecurity lane.

“It’s not on the table - unless you wanted it. You’re different,” his companion urged, savagely adjusting his pillow again before turning his head to announce, “you’re mine.”

Jensen swallowed around the swell of lust and internal preening and whatever the fuck responses those words evoked, delivered with such off-hand absolutism.

“You’re such a sweet-talker,” he diverted, nettled for all the right reasons.

“See, to anyone else, I would have sounded like a complete fucking asshole just then.”

“Oh you usually sound like an asshole,” he parried insincerely, stretching out a hand to begin dragging his nails lightly over Misha’s lower back. He zig-zagged in slow even caresses up to the shoulder and back again, happy at his lover’s answering sighs and little wriggle of contentment.

It was like alchemy, this touch, when he discovered it. It turned Misha instantly viscous and sedated, but it pulled at a deep memory in him too; of being soothed as a child in the same way, the nourishment of the simplest of artless touches. It produced a strange harmony of reassurance, memory and action.

Misha roused after a few minutes, lifting his head with a bleary start. “So we goin’ na shleep den.”

“Well this is a sleepover, ain’t it?” he quipped, hushed and lax once more, and suddenly aware that, incongruously, that’s exactly what this felt like. It make him chuckle under his breath.

“I don’t think I had any sleepovers as a kid,” Misha mused after a moment, steering Jensen into unexpectedly somber territory, but lifting him out just as fast by turning under his still sweeping hand and worming close so he could plant a brief butterfly-light kiss against his lips. He tucked his forehead under Jensen’s chin. “What're we missing… midnigh' shnacks?”

“I think it’s past midnight,” Jensen reasoned, cupping Misha’s skull and carding into his hair.

Misha inhaled deeply. “Huhmm,” he purred on the exhale, sinking closer.

Jensen could tell he was drifting into sleep, mid-conversation, knowing his rhythms as he did by now. He breathed into Misha's hair and wrapped around him, loosely enough that he could fall asleep without having to let go.

He could let go if he had to. He might even survive it. But with each day like today, each month, each lifetime that felt contained in these moments, the day when that might happen seemed farther and farther away.

 

 

** FIN **

 

 


End file.
